


Winter Has Come

by Kittenshift17



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Smut, What Season 8 Should Be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-05 09:38:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16808071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittenshift17/pseuds/Kittenshift17
Summary: Reunions are funny things and when Gendry, Tormund, the Hound and Jon are reunited with the women they love, it's clear that these fierce warriors have a little more than just surviving the Long Night on their minds.





	1. Chapter 1

"Arya?" Bran called from his wheeled chair before she could leave the Great Hall after breakfast.

She was in no mood for the strange things Bran liked to say, and the odd way he spoke and acted. She was furious with Sansa again, her suspicions of the girl's growing dissent blooming with each passing day that Jon stayed gone.

"What is it, Bran?" she asked, her back still to the boy.

If he minded the rudeness of her refusal to meet his unsettling gaze, he didn't let on.

"The things we once thought lost often find their way back to us," he said, always speaking in riddles these days.

"Meaning?" she asked.

"Stay your blade," he replied before rolling past her in his chair, not making eye contact or bothering to elaborate further.

Arya stood there with her fists clenched, well aware of the way Sansa was watching her though she'd yet to turn. She waited until Bran had rolled out of the room before she spoke again.

"I'm beginning to hate the thing our brother has become," Arya said, knowing Sansa would hear her.

"I'm beginning to hate the things we've _all_ become," Sansa replied quietly. "Bran - the Three-Eyed Raven. Jon - the King in the North. You - the Faceless Woman. Me…"

"Go on," Arya said, turning slowly when Sansa trailed off. "Why don't you tell me what it is you've become, sweet sister?"

Sansa's eyes flashed with annoyance for her goading tone and her doubt of her character.

"The Black Widow," she shrugged her slender shoulders. "Thrice betrothed. Twice widowed. Accused of killing one, though I didn't. Responsible for the devouring of another…. the Reforged Steel. The Rapist's Toy. The Survivor. Why don't you pick, Arya? You think you know so much about me and you seek to blackmail me about things I can't undo and things I couldn't change. You tell me? What am I now? Am I the hapless widow whose husbands just keep dying or disappearing? Am I the brittle and broken rape victim, whose body still aches from the pain of the things _he_ did to me and whose heart still burns for revenge even after watching him ripped to shreds and eaten by his own mongrels? Or am I some plotting, treacherous snake who'd usurp the power of the North all for myself just to hand it over to Cersei Lannister after all I endured in her 'care'?"

Arya didn't answer her. She couldn't. She'd trained long and hard in the House of Black and White, but she hadn't been able to figure Sansa out. The clues about all she had survived helped.

"Why is Little Finger still in Winterfell?" she asked instead.

"Because without him the knights of the Vale would ride home and Jon's army would be halved," Sansa replied.

"Why do you keep his counsel when you know he's a poisonous snake?" Arya asked next, her hands tucked behind her back as she eyed her sister across the great hall.

"Politics is not black and white, Arya," Sansa answered. "If I cast him out or am any ruder to him than I have already been, he will leave and his men will leave with him."

"Why does he love you?" Arya asked.

Sansa sighed, propping her chin upon her balled fist and resting her elbow on the table, glaring at her a little.

"Because I'm the spitting image of Mother and because he foolishly believes that Jon being a bastard and me having been wed to the last Lord of Winterfell, not to mention my being the eldest living true-born Stark, make me the rightful heir to Winterfell. He seeks power, as he has always done, and he thinks that he can claim the power of the entire North by marrying me."

Arya curled her lip.

"If I kill him, his men won't leave," she said.

"If you kill him, everyone will know who was to blame," Sansa replied. "You've made no secret of your dislike for him. And what then? The knights of the Vale turn on the knights of Winterfell and we add forces to the army of the Dead that march ever southward?"

"You imagine me incapable of laying the proper trap to make it appear a tragic accident or the work of an enemy spy?" Arya raised one eyebrow, smirking in silent challenge. "Tell me, sweet sister, what do _you_ believe became of the Freys?"

Before Sansa could answer, no matter the way her eyes went wide, Arya turned on her heels and walked away. Brienne had been ordered to travel south to do Sansa's bidding with Queen Cersei, but she'd yet to leave and Arya was determined to get in a training session before she could go. She didn't fancy the notion of being left up here with no one to spar with. Podrick was still in training and no one else in this place had any decent ability. No one who would spar with her, anyway.

"Brienne?" she smiled when she met the woman coming out of the stables.

"Lady Arya," Brienne smiled in return. Arya knew the big, blonde woman had grown fond of sparring with her, too, shocked by her skill and wanting to learn, in addition to benefitting from the practice of having a regular sparring partner.

"One more before you go?" Arya offered.

"Of course, my Lady," Brienne smiled.

"How many times must I tell you not to call me that?" Arya asked, though her smile stayed in place. "I don't call you Lady Brienne, knowing you aren't any fonder of your title than I am of mine."

Brienne sighed. "Your Lady Mother would be cross with me if I didn't show her daughter the proper respect due of her station."

"And I'm sure your family would feel the same at my address of you," Arya shrugged. "Yet I do as I please, not as society demands."

"You enjoy rubbing their noses in your defiance, don't you?" Brienne asked, handing the reins of her horse to Podrick and unsheathing her sword.

"Naturally. Women like you and me are not made for bowing and scraping and silly, pretty dresses, are we?" Arya smiled.

"Not really," Brienne sighed. "I believe the last time I wore a dress, I was forced into it. And it was too small. Barely reached my shins."

Arya laughed at the woman.

"At least you weren't tripping over the hems," Arya offered.

"No, I've never had that problem."

They bowed formally before they began, leaping into a vicious and rapid dance of blades, their weapons ringing together and sparking as they met. Arya was so drawn into the fight that she and Brienne both missed the trumpeting of horns and ringing of bells announcing the arrival of riders on the Kingsroad.

"Lady Arya?" Podrick said. "Lady Brienne?"

They both ignored him, their battle spilling into the main courtyard as they danced and fought around each other, heedless of the others going about their business there or the way the crowd had begun to gather as the gates were raised and riders astride huffing steeds appeared.

Arya smirked when Brienne was temporarily distracted by the riders, taking advantage of her distraction and whacking her hard with the flat of her blade, making the bigger woman grunt. Brienne narrowed her eyes and struck back, catching Arya's blade, her attention focused once more upon their deadly dance.

Arya ran up a nearby cart and dove at the woman with a warrior's cry, but Brienne blocked her, slinging a punch at her on the way down and Arya grunted, sent into a tumble as the blow threw off her balance and drew blood from her lip. She laughed as she wiped at it, springing into a crouch and watching Brienne, who was smiling too. They dove again, clanging their weapons, watching their steps, dancing a strange combination of Westerosi brute force and Braavosi Water Dance.

As so often happened amid their battles, they ended on a draw, Brienne's sword poised over her heart, and Arya's dagger to Brienne's throat. They were both breathing hard and both grinning when the slow clap began, and Arya blinked, frowning as she straightened, her eyes sweeping over the courtyard to rest on a group of men astride horses.

One bore a striking resemblance to her Lord Father, all dark hair, grey eyes and a stern yet smiling expression. He was the one responsible for the clapping and Arya's heart back flipped inside her chest.

"Jon?" she asked, sheathing her dagger and her sword and watching Brienne do the same thing out the corner of her eye.

"Learned a little more than how to stick 'em with the pointy end, haven't you?" Jon asked, swinging down from astride his horse and striding toward her.

Arya's face almost broke with the size of her grin as she gave a shout and ran toward the man, his gait and his stance so like their father's that for a moment she was caught in a memory. She threw herself into his embrace and he caught her with a laugh, lifting her into the air before crushing her to him in a bone-breaking hug that might've hurt if she wasn't squeezing him just as hard.

"I thought you were dead," they said at the same time when they broke apart.

Arya laughed. "We Starks aren't that easy to kill," she said. "And you, King in the North?"

He nodded, looking sheepish and rubbing the back of his neck.

"You're not a moment too soon," Arya told him. "We have much to discuss, big-brother."

"Why? What's happened?" he asked, frowning.

"Cersei has summoned Sansa to King's Landing for a meeting. She was planning to send Brienne in her stead."

"That's been cancelled," Jon said immediately. "Brienne, no one goes to King's Landing before Queen Daenerys reaches Winterfell."

Lady Brienne opened her mouth like she might protest, but before she could utter a word, a large man dressed in wildling clothes with thick red hair and an impressive red beard dismounted his horse from among Jon's posse and strode toward her. Arya watched in amusement and maybe just the smallest amount of concern as Brienne's mouth snapped shut as the big wilding invaded her space.

"I thought you'd gone to the Wall," Brienne demanded when the man stopped inside her personal space and grinned at her but didn't touch her.

"I've returned," he shrugged. "And I am ready for our fight."

"Our fight?" Brienne asked, dumbfounded.

"Tormund," Jon said quietly. "I don't imagine Lady Brienne is aware of the customs of the Free Folk."

"Oh," the redhead said. He frowned, turning his eyes on Jon and shrugging. He shot a glance at Arya, his lips twitching into a grin when she met his gaze boldly. Arya noted that he was definitely a wildling. There was something in his eyes she'd never seen in the eyes of any Lord of Westeros. "Guess you better fill her in, then."

"You really want to do this now?" Jon asked, smirking in returning as he slung an arm around Arya's shoulders, tucking her into his side.

"I just survived an encounter with the army of the Dead. I know what's coming. I won't wait any longer," Tormund said.

Jon sighed.

"Mad cunt," someone muttered from behind them and Arya turned in Jon's hold, her eyes travelling up and up until they swept over a scarred and puckered face that held sad eyes and an ugly grin.

"The Hound," she sneered, smirking as her heart gave another little lurch inside her chest.

He returned the look, his eyes brightening.

"The Stark Bitch," he sneered right back.

"Oi!" Jon growled at the man but Arya was already stepping out of her brother's hold and crossing the short distance to the former Kingsguard.

She slung her arms around him and was scooped into another crushing hug that almost broke her spine, but she'd begun to laugh.

"You two know each other?" Jon asked, seeming surprised.

"You two don't want to kill each other?" someone else asked.

Arya ignored them as the Hound set her back on her feet.

"You owe me a fight, bitch," he said gruffly.

"You owe me a pony," Arya replied.

"You owe me a knife in the neck, too," Clegane smirked.

"Glad I didn't give you one now, aren't you?" she said.

"No," he replied. "Selfish bitch."

"Eat me, Clegane," Arya retorted.

"Ran away with the Woman, eh?" he said. "What, the bitch almost hacks me in two and you're her biggest fan?"

"Didn't go with her," Arya shook her head. "You know that."

"You're with her now," he said, frowning.

"With you now, too," she said.

"Aye," he agreed.

"Is anyone going to tell me why this wilding wants to fight me?" Brienne demanded, and Arya turned to see that Tormund as still well inside her space.

She noted that he was actually taller than Brienne – not an easy feat – and it was clear to anyone with eyes that he fancied her.

"The Free Folk women are all warriors," Jon said. "You know why?"

Brienne shook her head.

"They survive by fighting. From the minute they come of age as women, they're fair game to the rest of the clans. If you don't know how to fight, you die or you're claimed by some toothless fucker better with a blade. They have a custom among the free folk regarding… well, marriage is the wrong word, isn't it Tormund."

"Marriage is paper and words we don't have time for. The Free Folk don't bother with all that pompous bullshit," he smirked.

"In the clans, you fight for your life. Anyone you fight must be fought to the death. If one person defeats the other, but shows them mercy, then they're life belongs to that person."

"I don't understand."

"If you and Tormund fight, whoever wins owns the life of the other. You can kill and end the life, claiming the debt. But if you show mercy, they belong to you. If you and Tormund fight and he wins, you're his, Brienne. You're his, and he's yours."

"How do you know?" Arya wanted to know.

"It's how I ended up with Ygritte," Jon sad, his smile sad. "Didn't know it at the time, but when I couldn't kill her, that made her mine. I was hers, and she was mine. The Wilding equivalent of a marriage, really. There's no arranged marriages for land or titles Beyond the Wall. Just surviving. And surviving is easier when you're sharing the heat of the furs with someone."

"Ygritte? You married a wildling?" Arya asked. "A Spearwife?"

Jon nodded.

"She hated you for it, too," Tormund laughed, glancing at Jon. "For a time. Until you showed her your pretty cock."

Jon grinned. "She hated me after that, too."

"You were a crow," Tormund shrugged before turning his gaze back to Brienne.

"I'm not going to fight you, Tormund," Brienne said stubbornly.

"Worried you will lose?" Tormund smirked. "I know none of these southern fuckers have a cock as big as mine, but you will like it."

Brienne's cheeks went scarlet.

"You can't just make her fight," Arya said, unsheathing a dagger.

Jon caught her hand.

"That he gave you warning at all, Brienne, was a courtesy. The Free Folk don't usually give warning. They just take what they want. Whether it's your life, your land, your food, or your cunt, they will take it if they can."

"Don't deny you want it," Tormund taunted the scarlet-cheeked warrior woman. "I have seen the way you look at me."

"With horror?" Brienne scoffed.

"With lust," Tormund grinned. "You want to ride the cock of Tormund Giantsbane. Come, we fight. And then you can."

"You realise that telling me the rules means that if I want to avoid fucking you, I'll kill you?" Brienne asked, drawing her sword.

"You won't," Tormund said. "I never lose. I'm good at two things. Killing. And fucking."

"Do you have to do it now?" Sansa asked, appearing on the scene with her arms folded. "Brienne is needed elsewhere."

"Snow?" Tormund asked, his sword already out, his eyes still fixed on Brienne while she dropped into a fighting crouch.

"You'd be safer trying to stick your cock in almost any other woman, wildling cunt," the Hound spoke up.

Tormund made a rude hand gesture and the Hound snorted in amusement.

"Crazy bastard," he muttered.

"Sandor?" Sansa's soft voice suddenly cut across the din of the courtyard as they cheered over the idea of Brienne and Tormund doing battle.

Arya felt the way Clegane tensed, his eyes snapping up to fix on Sansa.

"Little Bird?" he murmured and Arya watched his terrible face soften into the fondest expression she'd ever seen.

"Urgh," she groaned when she looked at Sansa and found a fond expression upon her face too. "Really? My sister?"

"Shut up, Bitch," he slanted a glance in her direction.

"Just what _was_ she up to while you helped hold her captive in King's Landing?" Arya demanded.

The Hound cuffed her around the ears.

"Watch your mouth, Bitch," he said. "You got away, but your sister wasn't a wolf then. She was a scared little bird forced to sing through the bars of her gilded cage if she wanted to be allowed clothing, food, or a day without pain. Whatever you think you suffered, you never suffered that."

"You don't know that," Arya replied.

She blinked when he gripped her chin, leering into her defiant face.

"Were you forced to marry a violent cunt who played with his food like a cat with a mouse?" he asked. "No. You were with me, riding your very own pony and robbing taverns. You got off easy. _You_ were free."

"I was your prisoner being carted all over the Riverlands and the Vale so that _you_ could claim a bounty," Arya retorted.

"And I was so fucking hard on you?" the Hound scoffed. "Feeding you. Teaching you to fight. Making sure you didn't freeze or get eaten or captured by worse than me. While you were muttering that list of names into the dirt every night right next to me, you weren't being raped or beaten bloody and stripped naked before a court full of impotent bystanders who revelled at the sight of your pain. You were hungry and you were scared, but you had friends. _She_ had no one."

" _She_ was too stupid to run," Arya retorted. " _She_ was the one whose _beloved Joffrey_ robbed me of Nymeria and robbed her of Lady, while she lied and smiled and made eyes at the twisted little cunt. _She_ was the one who thought she was going to be the next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

"And where is she now?" Clegane demanded, his grip on her chin painfully tight as he turned her head, making her face Sansa, whose expression was pained. "Does she _look_ like the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? 'Cause from where I was sitting she was cast aside by that Cunt for Margery Tyrell. _She_ might've been too stupid to run when you asked, and she was definitely too stupid to run when I asked, but in the end, she ran just the same."

Sansa hung her head, as though in shame.

"This is hardly the time, or the place," she said.

"You're all ruining my moment with your family bullshit," Tormund complained.

"No, please, continue bickering," Brienne said.

"Why don't we all go inside and get out of the cold?" Ser Davos said.

"I've got a fucking fight to win!" Tormund growled.

"Later, Tormund," Jon clapped him on the shoulder. "Show her you Giantsbane of a cock later, yeah. When she's had time to consider the idea and won't kill you for spite. You don't want to claim her here in the grubby courtyard, do you?"

Tormund glanced around, curling his lip at the mud.

"Isn't this much mud North of the Wall," he said. "Can't fuck my woman in this filth."

"I'm not your woman," Brienne protested.

"Soon," Tormund promised, winking.

Arya snorted, pulling her chin out of Clegane's grip and noticing for the first time that there was someone else in Jon's raiding party.

"Dondarrion?" she frowned.

"Arya Stark," he inclined his head in greeting. "Been a long time, girl. Heart Hill, wasn't it?"

Arya shrugged.

"Aye," he said. "You were screaming about that one burning in hell while this one held you back from burning him, yourself. Or was it me holding your back from burning the Red Woman while we sold this one to her?"

He jerked his thumb at another man whose hood was up. Arya's jaw slackened when he threw it back, revealing his thick black hair and Baratheon-blue eyes. She'd know those eyes and that crooked grin anywhere, no matter how she'd sworn up and down that he was a traitor for choosing the Brotherhood over her.

"M'lady," he grinned at her, inclining his head and slinging a large Warhammer across his back as he strode closer.

"Do _not_ call me m'lady," Arya blurted, her heart racing in her chest and her stomach backflipping, the words spilling out without thought.

He laughed at her.

"You're alive," he commented.

"So are you," she frowned. "I thought you were dead."

"Heard you were as well."

"You two know each other?" Jon asked. "Bloody hell, Arya. What have you been doing since I last saw you that you know all my men?"

"Didn't know the Wildling," she said.

"You know Gendry? How is it that you know the last surviving bastard of King Robert?" Jon pushed.

"Before the Hound stole her away to pawn her for money, she was crawling into my arms for warmth every night and pretending to be a boy on the run from the Lannisters and trying to get home to Winterfell," Gendry answered for her, still grinning as he came closer.

Arya stared at him, noticing how much he'd grown. He was taller than ever; at least as tall as the Hound, Brienne, or even Tormund. He was strong, too. Under his cloak and his heavy winter clothes his shoulders were as wide as her arm was long. When he came even closer, scooping her into her third bone-crushing hug for the day, Arya could feel how much stronger he was and she was shaking her head in disbelief.

When he held her to him, she found her arms automatically winding around his neck as she breathed in the familiar scent of him that she'd breathed every night as they'd travelled North together after he'd figured out she was a girl and before they'd parted ways.

"You have a Warhammer?" she asked when she pulled back, noting the way he didn't actually let her go.

"Yep," he grinned. "Pretty good at swinging it, too."

"Stupid," she told him. "Too big and too slow. I could poke you full of holes before you'd land a single blow."

He rolled his eyes.

"Watching you fight Brienne as we rode in made me want to poke you full, too," he retorted and it was Arya's turn to blush. Jon snorted and Sansa gasped.

Arya pulled his hair nastily, but he didn't seem to mind even as he set her down once more.

"And I thought the wilding was a mad cunt," the Hound said. "The Woman's dangerous enough, but the Stark Bitch… Knew you weren't too bright, kid. When she rips your nuts off, don't cry to me."

Gendry laughed and Arya smiled proudly.

"If we'd known you were coming, I'd have prepared a feast for your return, Jon," Sansa said, sounding disapproving.

"Anything hot will do," Jon shrugged. "Come on, let's get inside before Tormund tries to teach Brienne the Wildling Way out here."

"As though the Great Hall would be a better spot?" Brienne asked dryly, her cheeks still pink.

"It's cleaner in there," Tormund said. "Snowy ground in the Godswood would be better."

"You're going to scream when I kill you," Brienne promised the wildling man coldly.

Tormund laughed.

"You're going to scream when I fuck you. Over and over again," he promised in reply. "You'll enjoy every minute of it."

"Are all wildlings like this?" Arya asked, amused as they all followed Sansa inside and toward the Great Hall.

"None have as big a cock," Tormund assured her.

"It's probably true," Gendry laughed when Arya raised her eyebrows. "That things a Warhammer all its own."

Tormund beamed proudly, winking at Brienne again.

"Southerners just ask when they want to fuck someone, you know?" Arya said to Tormund, deciding she liked him immediately.

"Asking permission gives the opportunity to be told no," Tormund replied. "You Southerners. Stupid. The Free Folk know the only way to get what you want is to fight for it."

"It'll certainly be a fight worth seeing. She beat the Hound," Arya said.

Clegane grunted and cuffed her around the ears again.

"You fought my woman, Dog?" Tormund asked, his face serious.

"And lost. The bitch left me for dead. Both bitches, actually," he glared at Arya.

"Yet here you are," Arya grinned. "Brightening our world with your sunny disposition."

Everyone fell silent and glanced at the Hound before Dondarrion snorted and the laughter began.


	2. Chapter 2

"I missed you," Jon said quietly to Arya that evening after the feasting was done and the smallfolk had all gone back to their chores.

The tales of what had taken place Beyond the Wall in their foray North had left everyone shaken and brimming with the need to rally the entire Seven Kingdoms to fight the army of the Dead. The Northmen whose past grievances with the Targaryens hadn't appreciated the thought of Jon bending the knee and swearing fealty to the Dragon Queen, but they'd had little choice but to accept it. Arya had seen the crestfallen expression on Sansa's face as a result.

"And I, you," Arya told her brother, glancing away from the flames dancing in the hearth to smile at him gently. "It has been many long years since I hugged you goodbye right here in Winterfell."

"Most days, I wish we'd never left," Jon admitted softly, sipping the ale they were sharing.

"Me too," Arya said. "But if we hadn't, I'd never be able to fight as I can, and you'd never have fucked a wildling woman or sworn fealty to a dragon queen."

"Will you tell me where you learned to fight?" Jon asked quietly. "You're better than most of the warrior's I've seen."

"You will think differently of me if I tell you," Arya said carefully, holding his gaze.

"You would think differently of me if you know the oaths I have sworn, and then broken. If you knew the lives I had taken and the things I had done, you might never talk to me again, Arya."

"After parting ways with the Hound when Brienne bested him, I made my way to Braavos," Arya told him quietly. "I became an acolyte to the House of Black and White."

Jon almost dropped his goblet.

"You're a Faceless Man?"

Arya shrugged. "I never swore my vows. I could not fully let go of being Arya Stark, which one must do in order to properly become No One. To do as they do, one must be impartial, and take the lives given to the Many Faced God indiscriminately. Many of them were jobs that were petty and stupid. There was no honour in doing the bidding of others. I could never let go of Father's lesson."

"He who delivers the sentence should swing the sword," Jon recited.

Arya nodded.

"I had too many sentences to deliver, anyway. I'd never have been able to do so if I'd stayed. I earned the right to change my face before I left, but I am not a sworn Faceless Man in the service of the Many Faced God."

"I'm no King of the North, but that is what people call me," Jon shrugged.

"You _are_ King in the North," Arya disagreed. "You did something no other man has ever done. You convinced Westerosi knights to fight alongside the Free Folk, rather than amongst themselves. You even convinced proud and stubborn Northmen who rode into battle against a Targaryen monarch and destroyed a dynasty to follow a descendant of that monarch as we join forces to fight the Night King."

"I did," Jon nodded grimly. "But I never wanted it. I just wanted to have my woman and live my life free of your mother's disdain."

"The Wildling girl?" Arya guessed.

Jon's lips twisted.

"Her name was Ygritte," he said quietly. "She died when the Wildlings took Castle Black."

"You loved her?" Arya guessed.

Jon nodded. "I betrayed her, too. The Wildling way is… different than ours. They're a proud lot, but they know when they're beaten. If you're beaten in battle beyond the wall, you die. And if you don't die it's because the person you're fighting wants you for other reasons. Most often, for a partner. When I couldn't kill her after we took her prisoner, to her that meant I'd laid claim to her. She accused me of knowing nothing more times than I could count since I'd made my vows about not fucking a woman as a man of the Night's Watch. And when you have mercy on a spearwife, making her yours, you're supposed to fuck her. She taunted me, actually, to get me to claim her like proper."

"Did you?" Arya asked.

Jon nodded.

"Eventually. I broke every oath I swore to the Watch for that girl."

"And now?" she asked. "Does the King in the North have his eye on a woman for his own?"

Jon grinned.

"You always could tell when I fancied a girl," he smiled fondly. "Aye, but she'd never have me."

"The Dragon Queen?" Arya guessed.

Jon sighed, nodding once more.

"I can see it now," she smiled slowly. "Queen of the Seven Kingdoms weds King in the North. Kings and Queens are supposed to marry, you know."

"Don't think she'd be very pleased if I claimed her the Wildling Way," Jon said.

"You're not a Wildling," she shrugged.

"I'm as good as," Jon said. "I lived as one of them. I fought as one of them. I died as one of them, technically. I married one of their women and I'd have fucked as many sons and daughters into my woman as I could if not for the fucking duties of being a man of the Watch and a Stark. Beyond the wall, there's no such thing as Lord and Ladies, or bastards. There are men, and women. There are boys and girls. Any sons or daughters Ygritte and I might've had wouldn't have been bastards, no matter than I'm a bastard and that we weren't legally married before the Seven. The Free Folk believe the Old Gods are always watching, and any man who claims his woman is her husband. Any children of the claiming are his sons and his daughters and there are no stupid names based on where a person is born. I prefer the ways of the Free Folk, Arya."

"How do you know Daenerys doesn't?" Arya challenged. "She was a Khaleesi before she was a Queen. She was traded to Khal Drogo and married to a savage Dothraki warrior. You think she wouldn't appreciate a man who might get rough with her in the furs so she knows she's wanted? You think she doesn't want someone to lay claim to her, as surely as she lays claim to the Seven Kingdoms? You're the King in the North. And you know our stubborn people will not recognise her as their ruler if you don't marry her. Put the idea to her. I mean, she might not appreciate being fought for the privilege, but you could always ask."

"And if she says no?" Jon asked.

"Point out the advantages. Point out how little time is left before the battle begins. Point out that she needs a successor and the sooner you fuck one into her, the better."

Jon snorted.

"All these years and all your training hasn't improved the way you talk," he told her.

"Worsened it, actually," Arya smiled.

"Yeah, well. Even if I could convince her to marry me, it wouldn't get her a successor unless I was that successor. She can't have children."

"She's barren?" Arya frowned. "Not going to make much of a dynasty that way, is she? Rumour has it that Queen Cersei is pregnant again. Another of Ser Jaime's bastards."

Jon frowned. "Where did you hear that?"

"I've got eyes and ears in places you can't fathom, Jon," Arya said quietly. "But I assure you, Cersei is pregnant. The people might not much like her, but they hated the Mad King more. And if the Mad King's daughter can't even have children to further her house, what good is she as a queen? Cersei might be carrying her twin brother's bastard spawn, but most folks in the Seven Kingdoms still believe a woman's only job is bearing children."

"Intent on popping out a few of your own, then?" he challenged.

Arya snorted. "I'd rather be barren."

"Daenerys wouldn't," he frowned. "When she spoke of it, there was pain in her voice."

"Maybe she wasn't always barren. Maybe she still isn't," Arya shrugged. "The Gods are mysterious. After all, technically you're dead. Maybe you could get her pregnant. Maybe it's just no living man who can fuck her full of babes."

"You really believe that?" Jon asked. "I thought you didn't believe in magic."

Arya snorted.

"I can take a person's face and _become_ them, Jon. If that's not magic, I don't know what is. The Night King resurrects corpses that have been long-dead. There are Dragons in the world. Believe me, if there's one thing I learned in the House of Black and White, it's that the Gods are many and they are cruel. They have the magic and they grant it to those who are deemed worthy. Bran tells of a Child of the Forest whom he met beyond the Wall. Trust me, big brother, magic is real. And it's kissed both you and Daenerys. Who is to say it won't combine and make a little more in the shape of the daughter that will lead the future when the Long Night ends?"

Jon turned to look at her slowly, his eyes wide and his lips twitching with a smile.

"I've missed you, little sister," he whispered, pulling her into another bone-crushing hug.

"And I have missed you. More than anyone. I miss Mother and Father, too. And Robb. And Rickon."

"As do I," Jon murmured. "But we have each other. And we have Bran and Sansa back, too."

"Yes, well, about them," Arya sighed, resting her head on her brother's shoulder and sighing.

"You are worried about Bran and his claims of the Three Eyed Raven," Jon said.

"Not really. I've seen enough to know when a person is who their faces presents them to be and who is wearing the face of another. Bran is… in there, but he's not the only one wearing his face, I think."

"And that doesn't bother you?" Jon asked.

"Beyond delivering him to the Nightlands, there is little I can do about that," Arya replied. "My more immediate concern is Sansa."

"She is… changed," Jon nodded slowly, pulling his fingers through her hair.

"She is treacherous," Arya replied. "Her intentions are not pure. She has always wanted to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, ever since we were girls. She got very close to getting her wish and she did terrible things in the hopes of achieving the title, Jon. Be careful with how far you trust her. She has Little Finger whispering in her ears and while she might be smart enough to know he wants to fuck her and wants to take the power she holds, she is nonetheless corrupted by that power. She is the eldest living trueborn child of Mother and Father. She was Lady of Winterfell when the Boltons took it, no matter what she endured for the title. She is also aware that your men have grown too used to their Lords riding South and dying. They spoke treasonous complaints in your absence and she did not discourage them. She heard them out and insisted you were King, but she did not immediately turn them away."

"She was right to do so," Jon said quietly. "I nearly didn't make it home and I'm no King. I've been given the title, but I don't enjoy the work that comes with it. If I could've stayed beyond the Wall with Ygritte forever, forgetting all duty, I'd have done it, Arya. Little Finger is a problem, but I've found a solution to him."

"Death?" Arya asked hopefully. "By my hand?"

Jon snorted.

"No. I know you noticed the exchange between Sansa and the Hound."

"You can't mean to suggest that she marries him, Jon," Arya frowned.

"I'm going to suggest it," he said, pulling back to meet her gaze. "The Hound is loyal to no man but himself. However, he is a strong and capable fighter. He's a survivor. He cares for her. And he's smart enough to know to keep Little Finger well away from our sister. Angry enough to kill the fucker if he comes too close, too."

"And when Sansa objects? You know she always liked the songs about handsome knights and she always fancied the pretty ones. She fancied Joffrey for his pretty face, and she fancied Ser Loras for _his_ pretty face, and she probably fancied Ser Jaime for _his_ pretty face. You would be hard-pressed to find an uglier man with less manners, Jon. Even if you search all of Pyke."

Jon snorted.

"Do you think, after so long, that our sister still only judges a man by the way he smiles and how handsome the babies he might make?" Jon asked her. "She was kept locked in the Red Keep while Joffrey tormented her every day, Arya. She was tortured and beaten and tormented for Joffrey's amusement every time Robb won a battle. And to make matters worse, she was expected to smile and sing sweetly about how she adored the crazy little shit. When she was finally free, she had Little Finger whispering in her ear and probably sticking his hands up her skirt because of how much she resembles Lady Catelyn. And then the cunt traded her to the Boltons. Don't forget that. She learned how ugly some pretty people can be before she left King's Landing. And she learned how deceitful some people can be, even when you entrust them with what broken fragments of a life you have left. He sold her to the Boltons in his quest to claim the North – to claim Father's seat. She will _never_ trust Little Finger again. She might be seen taking his counsel, but you will notice that she shuts him down and treats him rudely every time unless she sees the benefit of what he suggests. He sold her to Ramsay Bolton and that fucker made what Joffrey had done to her look like a walk in the woods.

"He raped her, Arya. Every night. He'd giggle and he'd brutalise her. She has scars that would make your blood boil from what that cunt did to her. If she is bitter and angry, if she wants power, it is because all her life, she has had it stripped from her. They took her freedom and her dignity. They took her innocence. They took her pride and they robbed her of any happiness or remaining delusions of people being decent just because they're pretty."

"And you think that lends itself to marrying her to the Hound?" Arya asked. "I've lived with him, Jon. If you want to give Sansa some semblance of happiness, you won't do it with Clegane. He's as angry and as bitter."

"Of course he is. Like her, he had his happiness, his looks, his everything ripped away long ago. He might be rough and he might swear and curse and get rip-roaring drunk more often than not, but do you know what he'd never do?"

Arya sighed.

"He'd never hurt her," Arya said softly. "He never hurt me unless I asked for it. He never laid a dishonourable finger on me, either. He wouldn't force himself on her if she didn't want him."

Jon nodded. "And he'd kill anyone else who tried."

"Won't having him kill Little Finger cost you the Knights of the Vale?" Arya challenged.

"A man with allegiance to no house who has sworn me no vows? They could try it. He would earn my protection. And everyone hates Little Finger, even the men who follow him. They do so only because he is their Lord by marriage."

"You would have to install someone else in his stead as Lord of the Vale," Arya mused.

"And I would do so. But not the Hound. House Clegane already has its own seat and its own house. It is time we started putting the Lords of the Highborn houses back into their seats to rule their corners of the Kingdoms. I know it's Daenerys's plan when the Night King is defeated."

" _If_ the Night King is defeated," Arya muttered.

"Aye," Jon sighed. "We might not win. All the more reason to take our pleasures where we find them before the Long Night takes root and the dead overrun us, eh?"

"And you think the Hound will bring Sansa pleasure?" Arya challenged.

"I think Daenerys will bring me some," Jon shrugged. "I know Brienne will bring Tormund some."

"You envy his intent to fight her and claim her?" Arya asked.

"I don't want Brienne. But if I could claim Daenerys that way, I would," he grinned. "And what of you, little sister. I hear tell that Robert Baratheon's bastard is a man whose arms you've spent many a night in?"

Arya blushed.

"Not like that," she said. "I was just a girl when Gendry and I parted ways. And he… he didn't pick me, Jon."

Jon raised his eyebrows.

"You think he came all this way and raided beyond the Wall against the army of the dead for me?" he scoffed. "I thought he was just a crazy fucker, but now I see. He thought you were dead, but he got wind that I was your brother and he came to my aide."

"He picked the Brotherhood over me, Jon," Arya shook her head. "He had a choice and he made it. I wasn't it."

"You were a little girl wanting to drag him off – a bastard born boy with his first taste of freedom – to fight in someone else's war while you went back to being a Highborn Lady. Men will do many things for their freedom, Arya. We break our oaths to the Gods and our Lords. We betray those who've relied on us. Were it not for the Army of the Dead and the Night King, I'd never have returned to this side of the Wall, no matter how cold and bleak it was up there. You asked a bastard born teenager to pick between you and his freedom where he didn't have to serve a Lord. Of course he picked his freedom. I'll bet he hoped you'd stay long enough to be of an age where he could revel in his freedom, too."

Arya rolled her eyes.

"Oh, yes," she said. "Because I'm so ladylike and pretty like the girls in the tales who fall for the knights. Believe me, the boy I knew Gendry to be was one who'd have preferred a pretty girl like Sansa over me. He wanted to be a knight and he wanted a pretty maiden on his arm."

"And if he does alright for himself he might just get a pretty maiden in his bed. If you stop bitching and use your head, that is," Jon said.

Arya glanced down at herself when he nodded indicatively at her, obviously referring to her.

"You've died too many times if you think I'm pretty, Jon," Arya said.

He shook his head.

"Do you think Brienne is pretty, Arya?" he asked.

"Not pretty like Sansa," Arya frowned.

"Do you think Tormund wants Brienne, or Sansa?"

"Had he met Sansa before today?"

Jon nodded. "He met her beyond the Wall at the same time he first laid eyes on Brienne. Which one is he fighting for the privilege of claiming?"

"Brienne," Arya frowned.

"Because he doesn't care if she's pretty by our standards. The Free Folk prefer a strong woman who can defend herself over a silly princess who smiles sweetly."

"Gendry's not one of the Free Folk," she said.

"He might as well be," Jon smirked. "He's bastard born, like me. He's had a taste of freedom, like me. He found a pretty girl who snuggled into him for warmth every other night, like me. He learned to fight and values a girl who can fight. You go and ask him if he prefers you or Sansa. Talk to me when you can walk without waddling after he fucks you."

"He wouldn't," Arya frowned, her cheeks pink.

"Don't underestimate a man's urge to fuck, little sister," Jon laughed. "We make more than half our decisions with our cocks."

"Not when I'm around."

"Ah, so you _are_ still innocent, then? Wouldn't your Mother be proud?"

Arya kicked him.

"Well, all I'll say is that you better hope Gendry lays claim to you, little sister. A good number of the Free Folk call Winterfell home, these days. I caught the look Tormund gave you. If he wasn't already besotted with Brienne, he'd fight for you, and a good deal of his men will try when they see how well you fight."

"None have tried so far."

"No, they've been manning the wall for me," Jon smirked. "But a fair few are on their way back here to meet up with me and await Daenerys here. If Gendry hasn't claimed you by then, one of them will."

"They'll die," Arya replied.

Jon smirked.

"You're good, Arya," he told her. "I saw you today. You've gotten very good. But the Free Folk are a people whose lives revolve around fighting and killing. They learn from the minute they're born. I guarantee that no matter how good you are, someone, somewhere, is better. Some of them take more than one spearwife, too. So unless you fancy licking cunt as well as sucking cock, you better find yourself a way to fend them all off."

Arya scowled at him.

"You imagine Gendry could beat me in a fight?"

"Dunno," Jon said, taking another swig of his ale. "You going to make him find out?"

Arya's lips twitched.

"If he wants to lay claim to me, then yes."

"And if he loses?" Jon raised his eyebrows. "You going to kill him?"

Arya shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe I'll claim him, instead."

Jon's eyes widened and he grinned.

"He's not the brightest," he pointed out.

"No," Arya agreed. "He's not. He's big and stupid. But he's pretty. Imagine Sansa's face if I marry a pretty knight and she ends up with the Hound."

"Imagine how Father and King Robert would rejoice to finally see their houses joined, after all."

"They probably wouldn't celebrate you fucking a Targaryen," Arya pointed out.

"I wouldn't be the first Stark to do so," Jon shrugged.

"No," Arya said. "I suppose not. Won't it cause problems for you if Tormund wins and fucks a babe into Brienne's belly?"

"Why would it?" Jon asked.

"Brienne's a good fighter. She can't fight the Army of the Dead if she's pregnant," Arya pointed out.

"She can't," he agreed. "Though she'd probably try. Honestly, I hope the Dead will hold off long enough that it wouldn't be a problem. I hope they can be stopped before they reach the wall. If we're to prevail, we need to kill the Night King. He's the one who's responsible for all the other Whites. If we kill him, we kill them all."

"That won't be so easy if he raises that dragon," Arya replied. "And your Targaryen queen will not be so ready to risk her remaining two to try it."

Jon's eyes widened as she spoke.

"You… no…" he whispered. "No, he _can't_ raise the dragon."

"He will," Arya replied, eyeing him.

"It's a beast of fire. It cannot be raised by Ice."

"It shouldn't have been killed by ice," Arya responded. "But it was. If I was the Night King and I knew my enemies were riding dragons into battle, I would seek to do the same thing. You left the body there, under the ice. He will raise that dragon from the ice and he will ride it into battle as surely as Daenerys will ride Drogon."

"Shit!" Jon cursed. "I need to send a raven to Daenerys."

"She's already on her way here," Arya shrugged. "No raven will stop halfway."

"If he can ride that bloody dragon, he'll get over the wall," Jon said. "And if he gets over the wall, all the men who've died in all the wars we've been fighting down here will rise and his numbers will quadruple almost overnight. We don't have enough men to face the army he has, now. Even if every able bodied man, woman and child left in Westeros was called to arms, we wouldn't have enough men to fight them if he gets over that wall, Arya. And unlike them, we have to contend with the soul-stealing cold he brings with him. Our armies could freeze to death in their beds before we even ride into battle if he comes over that wall."

"The Wall is more than just ice, Jon," Arya reminded him. "The Children of the Forest and the First Men imbued it with magic to imprison those things beyond it."

"And you think the magic of a dragon won't outweigh what little strength is left in an eight thousand year old wall?" Jon asked. "The Children are all gone, Arya. We chopped down all their Heart Trees and we drove them from our lands. Any that still lived would've been Beyond the Wall and if they didn't come South with the Giants and the wildlings, they're not going to help us or they don't exist anymore."

"All living things Beyond the Wall will precede the Army of the Dead," Bran's voice interrupted their conversation and Arya looked over to meet the boy's gaze. She frowned when she saw his eyes were rolled back in his head, his body strangely limp in his wheeled chair.

"Bran?" Jon asked frowning.

"Don't touch him," Arya cautioned when her brother made to do that.

"He's… warging," Jon whispered quietly, frowning before looking at Arya. "I didn't know he could."

"He's not the only one."

"You, too?" Jon asked.

Arya nodded. "In the House of Black and White, they took my eyes as part of my training. I spent almost a year blind. In that time, I learned to warg into the animals around me. I recognise the look. I was able to continue fighting while I did it, though. It started with dreams where I would enter the mind of Nymeria while she hunted with her Pack in the Riverlands. It was through her eyes that I saw Mother die."

"I've done it in my dreams, too," Jon said. "Only ever into Ghost, but I can see through his eyes. I met a few skin-changers beyond the wall, among the Free Folk, too. One could warg into three or four different animals."

"With Summer gone, what's Bran warging into?" Arya asked in a whisper.

"The Dire Wolves north of the Wall," Bran asked, his voice a little slow, but his answer clear. "They're coming. Everything North of the wall is coming South. The dragon has risen, and with it, the cold grows. The dead are slow, and the Whites are still far beyond. Send a raven to every manned post along the wall. They are coming and they _must_ be allowed through if we are to survive."

"Dire Wolves, south of the wall," Jon murmured. "If we don't die of the cold, we'll all be eaten."

"It might be a better way to go," Arya muttered. "Swifter, and without the hunger that would undoubtedly precede it."

"There are other things north of the wall, Arya. Giant bears. Giant… everything, to be honest. Most things beyond the wall are big. They have to be. Anything too small wouldn't generate enough body heat to survive."

"They are shepherded by the Children," Bran murmured. "The Old Gods are coming with them. They are coming home."


	3. Chapter 3

Tormund Giantsbane met the gaze of Brienne of Tarth with a cocky grin. She was eyeing him again. The woman always eyed him. Wanting his cock, he hoped.

"Outside, then?" he asked. "The Godswood."

"You realise that you'll die tonight if we fight, don't you?" she asked, assured of her skill.

But Tormund knew he could outdo her in battle. He was stronger. He was more determined. And he had the fire in his blood after his travels beyond the wall. Seeing the army of the dead had lit a fire inside him and he would not let it be extinguished until his fire-kissed hair turned grey and fell out when he was old and had fucked this woman full of his children until they had so many that his name would never be forgotten.

"The only casualty tonight will be your maidenhead, Brienne," he promised.

"What makes you think I'd have waited until now for someone to take my maidenhead?" she challenged, her blue eyes glittering with amusement. Tormund knew she hoped saying she'd fucked someone else would deter him from wanting her.

"I hope someone else took it," he said. "It's not in me to be slow and gentle when I claim what I want."

She paled a little at his words, confirming his suspicions. She'd never fucked anyone. Her fellow southern men were all cowards to like dainty, tiny women who couldn't fight. They liked women like the fire-kissed Lady Sansa. Aye, she might be beautiful, but she wasn't strong. She wasn't made for a hard life. She would not bear children as strong as Brienne might. And she fought only with a vicious tongue, not with a sword.

"And if my maidenhead _is_ intact?" she asked, sipping from a goblet of wine.

Tormund smirked at her. "It won't be after tonight."

"Does it matter to you at all that I'm in love with someone else?" she asked, frowning.

"The one-handed blond man who fucks his sister?" Tormund raised his eyebrows at her. "Word is that sister of his is pregnant again. So, your love is wasted on him."

"And it wouldn't be wasted on you?" she scoffed. "You ride off into battle every other day."

"Aye, but I always come back," he replied. "With both hands, too. A man needs two to properly fuck his woman."

"How is Cersei pregnant, then?" Brienne challenged.

Tormund recognised the hurt glittering in her eyes, obviously having felt for this Lannister man what he did not feel in return.

"Poor bitch probably had to do all the work while he laid there with his stiff little prick and watched her bounce."

Brienne looked away, her cheeks turning pink. Tormund was unused to these folk of the south who blushed over simple things like fucking, but for some reason he liked the pink colour in his woman's cheeks.

"Do you know what my father would say if he could see me talking to a Wildling?" she asked.

"About time you kept the company of a proper man?" Tormund suggested.

She snorted a laugh.

"He might, actually," she said. "No, he'd most likely be reminding me that all the men I've ever known have sneered at me. They only pretend to want me because it's a silly game. A joke to scoff over with their friends. Let's see whose brave enough to bed the Maid of Tarth, Brienne the Beauty."

She sneered the names they'd called her all her life before she knocked them all in the dust.

"He'd remind me that the only man I can trust is the man who respects my swordsmanship once I knock him in the dust because the rest are all shits," she said and Tormund tipped his head to one side as he continued to regard her. "They laugh and they scoff and they think it's funny because I'm a big, lumbering, ugly woman who'll never be pretty enough to have a husband. My father would say that if I can't impress them with my looks, I should impress them with my sword. And I do. I've spent my life putting men in the dirt. You will be no different."

"Except I don't think you ugly or lumbering," Tormund said. "And you won't win."

"Am I supposed to believe you are any different, Wildling?" she demanded. "You want to fight me, outdo me, and then fuck me, just so you can say you have. And tomorrow when the sun rises you'll swagger off to crawl between some other woman's thighs and I'll be a laughing stock."

"The only woman's thighs I plan on crawling between until I die are yours," he disagreed. "Where you come from the men are little. They are slow and they are thick. They have tiny cocks and to feel big they must laugh and scoff and shove one another. Where you come from the women are delicate. They have tiny soft hands and tiny soft bodies and they would die after a single night spent where I come from. Most have never held a sword or a blade in their lives. Most have never seen death. Most are weak-willed, weak-minded, and prissy. They would die trying to bring any babe I fucked into them into this world. But where I come from?"

Tormund raised his eyebrows at her and he grinned.

"Where I come from the men are big. We have big hands and big feet and really big cocks. Where I come from every day is a fight just to survive. Where I come from the women are strong. They can fight and their hands are still soft because they wear gloves so they don't lose their fingers to the frost, but they are used to holding a blade and they like to deliver men to the arms of death. Where I come from men and women fight an endless fight and dance an endless dance. We fight and we fuck and we fight some more. We don't smile and hold back because some Lord tells us it's not alright to fuck who we want to fuck. Where I come from, the bigger the woman, the stronger the sons and the more likely it is she'll survive birthing those sons into the world."

"You want me to bear you sons?" Brienne asked, her brow furrowing.

Tormund nodded.

She shook her head at him. "What if I don't want to fight? What if I don't want to bear your sons?"

"You want daughters? I don't mind, either way?" he offered, smirking.

She laughed again and Tormund suspected he had her now. His father always taught him that if you could make a woman laugh, you'd fare better in the Fight to claim her without her stabbing you in the eye.

"Why me?" she asked. "You don't even know me. Is it just because you think I'm big enough to survive whelping your giant children into the world?"

Tormund shrugged again.

"Nice eyes, too," he said. "Nice hair. Few Beyond the Wall have sun-kissed hair of gold like yours."

"Even though it's short like a man's?" she asked. "Mine is shorter than yours."

"Not for long. The cold makes it grow long."

"It looks worse long," she warned. Tormund smirked.

"Something to hold onto you by," he said.

"What if I don't want you, Tormund? Do we still fight?" she asked, tipping her head to one side and regarding him curiously.

"We always fight," he shrugged.

"And if I lose, you rape me?"

"If we fight right, you'll want my cock long before I bury it in you," he said. "You want it now, you just haven't let go of your southern notions of what a man should be and how pretty people are superior."

"You admit that you're not handsome?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Rugged, is the term," he grinned, shrugging. "I look how I look. Can't change it unless I get wounded and make it worse. Same as you can't change how you look."

"This is how I am, take it or leave it?" she surmised, and Tormund nodded, grinning. "What if I don't fight you?"

"Makes fucking you happen sooner," he shrugged, frowning.

"What if I kill you?" she wanted to know.

"You won't."

"You doubt my skill?" she asked, offended.

Tormund shook his head.

"Just your resolve," he said, winking. "Why kill when we can fuck?"

"Are you going to lose on purpose just to find out."

"I don't doubt your resolve _that_ much," Tormund frowned. "Come. To the Godswood. We fight."

"What if I don't want to fight in the dark or be fucked in the snow? I might not be much of a lady, but I do have a little dignity," Brienne protested.

"What if I want to? Whoever wins gets to decide."

"What if I win and I don't fuck you?" she raised her eyebrows.

Tormund rose to his feet and pull aside his thick cloak to show her the solid, throbbing cock straining to burst free of his britches.

"You won't say no to a cock this big."

"Why?" she asked, letting her eyes rake over him judgementally. "I've seen bigger."

Tormund scoffed doubtfully.

"I have!" she protested.

"I don't believe it," he shook his head, laughing a little. "But even if you have. I'll bet _he_ didn't want to fuck you with it."

Brienne frowned and one of her fists clenched. No, Tormund thought, not many wanted to fuck her.

She rose to her feet slowly, her feet scraping.

"It's dark. How are we to see in the Godswood to fight?" she asked.

"You've never fought in the dark?" he asked, smiling.

"Not against anyone I…" she stopped and Tormund smirked. Not against anyone she cared about maiming or killing. It was easy to swing blindly in the dark without caring if you cleaved off limbs.

Chuckling to himself, Tormund picked up a torch and carried it with him as he sauntered out of the hall. He could hear the thud of her footsteps as she followed him out into the snow and he could almost feel the tight, wet heat of her cunt gripping him already. When they were out in the woods where the snow wasn't churned up and brown, he stabbed the unlit end of the torch into the trunk of a tree to light their battle ground.

"I'm not going to fuck you," she warned him, drawing her sword. "I still haven't decided whether or not I'm going to kill you."

Tormund shrugged, drawing his own blades.

"Be warned, pretty Brienne," he smiled as he sank into a fighting crouch. "Whatever blood you draw is blood you will wear when I fuck you in this snow."

He waved a blade at the ground and she grunted as she swung the first strike. Tormund was laughing as he parried before he struck back, watching her eyes widen in surprise when their blades met with the full force of his strength. He watched the shudder of the blow run all the way up her arm and he smiled.

The fight was about strength. Like any male animal in the wild, it was a dance to show off his strength and his skill. To show he was capable of protecting himself and his family. It was a mating ritual, winning the right to breed. And he would show Brienne that while the southern men she knew might all be snivelling weaklings, there were still men in the world who could make her feel dainty.

She struck back harder, clocking him across the jaw with her fist and making him laugh as his head turned with the blow. Faster and harder they fought, and she grunted and hissed and cursed her way through the fight like any wildling woman might've.

"You're playing with me, aren't you?" she asked at one stage, falling back to wipe at the sweat on her brow, breathing hard.

Tormund bounced one cocky eyebrow, noting that behind her, the little woman with the blades she'd been fighting earlier, and the big lad who'd come ranging North, Gendry, were watching avidly. He didn't mind an audience. He'd fucked in front of others before. It was part of clan life. If they wanted to watch, they could.

"I'm tiring you," he corrected her. "It keeps the shouts of protest to a minimum later if you're ready to give in."

"And if I'm not?" she asked in challenge, swinging her sword at him once more.

Tormund parried the blow away, snagged his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her close until he could brush his lips over hers. She squeaked in surprise and jerked back, her eyes wide with alarm and he wondered if that was the first time she'd ever been kissed.

"Then the fight continues," he shrugged. "Come on, beautiful, show me what you can do."

Brienne's hand went to her lips, her fingers brushing them lightly and her eyes betraying her bewilderment until she registered his address of her. Her eyes flashed with anger at the term 'beautiful' and she dove at him again, slugging him hard, slashing faster with her sword, trying to kill him now. Tormund dodged the blows, grunting when she nicked his arm, slashing through his coat and cutting the flesh beneath.

"Careful, beauty," he said. "I know you like the cripple with only one hand, but I'll fuck you better with two."

"You won't be fucking me at all," she snarled, striking again.

Tormund swung back and she groaned when he caught her with the sharp edge of his blade, drawing her blood as she had drawn his. He struck again, drawing more blood while she clutched the wound, baring her teeth at him. He bared his own in return, the fire in his blood beginning to boil, ready to claim her now.

"Give it your all, Brienne," he growled. "I won't have you whinging and snapping later about how it was an unfair fight. I'll claim you as my woman for all your life when we're done here. Do you want to shrug and say you just _let_ me win?"

She gave a shout, charging him again and this time when their blades met, hers shattered. She snarled at the weapon and flung it aside, batting his aside too and tackling him into the snow. Tormund grunted when he landed, winded thanks to her shoulder driving into his stomach. She straddled him and she punched him across the face as hard as she could.

And by the Gods, the woman could hit. Tormund smirked, his own retaliation to buck under her, watching the way she faltered when she realised the hard length of steel between her legs was his cock.

"Still think you've seen bigger?" he taunted and she slugged him again.

Throwing a punch in return, he was impressed by how well she took it, her lip bleeding but her resolve steely. She wrapped her hands around his throat, wanting to choke the life out of him and Tormund bucked again before catching her by the back of the neck and rolling her off him. She snarled like a bear when he pinned her under him, peeling her hands from his throat with a little difficulty and pinning them in the snow beside her head.

"Had enough yet?" he asked.

"Never," she growled.

"That's my girl," he chuckled, ducking down to steal another kiss from her lips.

She bit him, and Tormund smirked, pulling back while she kept his lower lip caught between her teeth. When he ducked in again, her hands twisting and writhing in his grip, she bit him again but there was fight in those lips, too. A third time and she kissed back, just a bit. Another buck of his hips right against her cunt made her growl and she bucked right back, trying to throw him off of her and only succeeding in turning him on all the more.

When she bucked again, Tormund let her roll them both until he was on his back and he let her swing one more punch, this one catching him in the eye. It would bruise, he knew, but when he dug his fingers into her hair and yanked her down to kiss him again, she kissed him back.

He caught her hand when she went for the dagger in her boot and he flipped her off him one more time, letting her roll to the side, knowing she still had some fight left in her before she was going to be ready for his cock.

"This is a game to you, isn't it?" she asked, breathing hard from where she landed in the snow.

"Deadliest one I'll play for the rest of my life," he nodded.

"You'll still go into battle again, even if you beat me."

"Battle isn't a game," he shrugged, rolling to his feet and grunting when she sprang up with a vengeance, her fist flying for his head once more. He dodged the blow and slung a punch at her diaphragm, catching her when she doubled over, coughing and winded. She clutched his arm and he could feel the way she trembled.

"Then what is this, if not a battle?" she choked out.

Tormund tangled his hands into the hair at the back of her head, shooting a sly wink at Arya and Gendry where they watched from across the way. Gendry pumped his fist in the air in silent support and Arya picked her nails with the blade of a dagger looking very much like if he tried anything Brienne wasn't comfortable with, she'd gut him herself. From the cold, assessing look in the girl's eyes, he expected that if anyone could gut him, this tiny Stark girl could.

Lifting Brienne's head by his grip on her hair, he held her gaze and grinned.

"It's not a battle, beautiful," he said. "It's a dance."

"No one wins at dancing," she protested.

"Do you yield?" he asked.

"I never yield."

"Mmm, it's one of the things I like about you," he said, wincing when she stamped on his foot and kicked him as she jerked out of his hold.

"You're crazy, aren't you?" she accused when she slung at him again, watching him dodge and parry the blows before striking back.

"Just determined."

She shook her head. "Why me?"

"When you die, what do you want them to say you did with your life?" Tormund asked her quietly. "They'll know your name, as they know mine. Tormund Giantsbane. A man of the Free Folk who trusted a Crow, fought an army of the dead and rode a dragon. What will they say of you?"

"The Maid of Tarth," she said bitterly. "The biggest woman Westeros ever saw. The sworn shield of the Stark women who beat the Hound and failed to protect Lord Renly."

Tormund narrowed his eyes on her slightly as she added anger to her blows at the reminder of some of the things she'd done, things he didn't know about yet.

"What do you want them to say when they remember you, Lady Brienne?" he asked, blocking a blow that came flying toward his head.

She huffed, pulling back from him.

"I don't know," she said. "I've never thought about it."

Tormund raised his eyebrows.

"I wanted them to say I'm the woman who avenged Lord Renly," she admitted quietly. "And I took Stannis's head for the right. But it didn't bring him back and it didn't make me feel any better."

"No, the killing never does," Tormund agreed, parrying another blow she threw at him and huffing when she tackled him again, straddling him once more and trying to pin his hands as he'd done to her.

Tormund smirked as he showed her how much stronger he truly was, watching her struggle to pin him, letting her see what it felt like to be some dainty maid in comparison to a man who wanted her.

"What do you want them to say about you?" she asked when he flipped her off him again, this time pinning her much more gently, feeling the fight leeching out of her.

"I want them to say I sired great strapping sons," he said. "A whole horde of them to carry on my legacy and remember my name when I'm gone. I want to watch my clan grow strong with their strength. I want them to remember me for my fighting skill. I don't want to die in some stupid fight against the Night King, though I expect I will. I want to die a very old man surrounded by a hundred grandchildren."

"Even if none of them are pretty?" she asked when he rocked his hips slowly this time, grinding against her cunt through their clothes and giving her a real feel of what she was in for.

"Even if they're ugly as dogs," Tormund smirked. "Though they won't be if they're yours and mine."

"I doubt that," she said.

"When I die I want them to say I was the man who made Brienne of Tarth feel beautiful," Tormund said quietly, holding her gaze and watching the way her eyes went wide. "I want them to say that I was yours, and you were mine. When they speak of me, I want them to say Tormund Giantsbane and his woman, Brienne of Tarth, they were a formidable pair and their sons are bears of men."

"I hate bears," Brienne replied.

"Me too," he chuckled. "A dead one nearly killed me north of the Wall. A lot of dead things nearly killed me north of the Wall. And while we sat on that tiny island in the middle of a half frozen lake surrounded by the horde of the Dead, do you know what kept running through my head?"

Brienne shook her head, the fight slowly draining out of her but for the occasional, half-hearted wriggle.

"What?" she asked.

"I kept thinking I was going to die before I could fuck you," he said. "And it made me angry. It made me sad. So I came back, and I've fought you and now I want to fuck you. Are you going to let me?"

"I told you, I never yield," she said.

"I didn't ask you to yield," Tormund smirked. "I asked if I could fuck you."

"I thought wildings took what they wanted," she said.

"We do. But if I want to take you more than once, I'm going to have to make sure you're not going to try to kill me _every_ time," Tormund grinned.

Brienne bit her lip, looking away from his eyes for a moment, her face conflicted. Tormund could tell she wasn't sure about the idea. She wasn't like the women among the Free Folk. She might fight like one, but she didn't fight for things she wanted. She didn't seem to allow herself to want anything, as far as he could see.

When she looked back at him, there was a little fear in her eyes. "I've never fucked anyone before," she admitted.

"I know," Tormund said, and he smiled kindly at her in the dark and the snow.

Her blue eyes darted between both of his before flicking to his lips and back again. Tormund knew he had her as he rocked his hips again gently, feeling the way she arched instinctively under him. He liked the feel of her under him. It felt like she belonged there. When he ducked his head, holding her gaze as he descended upon her lips, she held her breath. She trembled under him just before their lips met and Tormund pressed a kiss to her plump lips hungrily.

His blood stirred with the fire, pushing him to claim that which he'd earned, but he stayed the urge as best he could, knowing that he'd regret hurting her if he were to hard-fuck her now and make her think fucking was all pain and no pleasure. She kissed him back uncertainly, obviously having little idea of what to do. When he coaxed her lips apart and brushed his tongue against hers, she squeaked in surprise and tensed under him, pulling back as best she could while she was pinned in the snow.

Her eyes were wide and uncertain when he opened his to meet her gaze, one eyebrow raised. He leaned in again when she blinked slowly, this time deepening the kiss immediately, tasting her tongue and groaning softly when she hesitantly licked back. He ground his cock against her cunt through their clothing and he cursed the cold when it occurred to him that he'd never see all of her in this wretched snow.

Flipping the two of them, and drawing another surprised squeak from her as he did so, Tormund pulled her down on top of himself, releasing her wrists to tangle a hand in her short hair as he sat up with her straddling him. He kissed her again, feeling the way she awkwardly fumbled her hands, obviously not sure what she should be doing. His own free hand slipped around her waist to press against her lower back, pulling her until she was snug against him and bucking his hips up under hers.

She grabbed on, then. One hand gripped his shoulder and the other touched his cheek, her fingers tangling in his beard. When she rolled her hips against his hard cock Tormund's eyes crossed with need and he bucked in response. He needed to get free of his clothes. Fuck it, he wanted her naked and panting his name and he wouldn't get that here in the cold and windy godswood while the snow continued to fall.

"Hold on," he said against her lips, breaking their kiss long enough to speak before scooping both hands under her arse and rolling forward with her in his grip.

She squeaked again in surprise, one arm looping around the back of his neck and the other tightening on his shoulder as he climbed to his feet without relinquishing his hold on her. She was lighter than she looked, he noticed, carrying her with ease as he strode across the clearing. He didn't see Arya or Gendry leave, but when he snuck a glance to make sure he wouldn't walk into anything or trip over something, they were gone. Brienne locked her ankles against the small of his back and Tormund groaned into her mouth when he pressed her into the trunk of a tree, grinding himself on her again as he continued tasting her tongue and learning her flavour.

Every time he pressed her to something he bucked into her, kissing her harder now, his tongue insistent, his lips hungry. She nipped him when he shoved her up against the cold stone wall of the castle and Tormund growled at her, opening his eyes to meet her gaze.

"Someone's going to see," she whispered when she let his lip go and Tormund nosed aside her collar to trail kisses down her neck.

"Good," he replied. "I want them all to know that you're mine."

"They're all going to laugh at me," she said, her voice husky and her head tipping back as he stumbled up the steps in the direction of his room, intent on hard fucking her into that soft mattress.

"You can cut their throats," he promised.

"Is it going to hurt?" she asked, her hand tangling into his red hair and a soft little sound escaping her when he kissed below her ear.

"Only a little," he muttered. "I hope."

She tensed again when they reached the door, one of his hands leaving her arse to turn the handle. He carried her across the threshold and pushed the door closed behind him, leaning her against it and bucking against her cunt once more.

In the warmth of the chamber, he reached for the fastenings on her cloak, slowly peeling her out of the layers she wore to combat the cold. Her fingers were hesitant as she returned the favour; his cloak slipped from his shoulders and to the floor. She huffed when she tugged on the front of his shirt, trying to pull it off him, and found it caught by her legs around his waist.

Tormund laughed at the sound of her impatience and he lowered her to the floor, pulling back far enough to let her pull it up and over his head. He smirked that she was tall enough to do so with ease. She trailed her eyes over him carefully, but before she could get a good look, Tormund returned the favour, snagging the hem of her shirt and pulling it off her body.

He was honestly surprised by the supple feminine form he found beneath it. The armour and the clothing she tended to wear hid her breasts completely, modest though they were. Her shoulders were wide, but her waist dipped in and her hips flared wide once more, her body almost made for bearing strapping babes. There could be no mistaking her for a man when she was half-naked. The small clothes she wore didn't hide the way her nipples were drawn into tight peaks and Tormund peeled her out of the garments until he could admire her bare torso.

She bore almost as many scars as he did, he noticed, and Brienne cringed, her hands coming up to try and hide her breasts from his heated gaze. Tormund caught her wrists before she could, holding them away from her body as he looked his fill. When he met her eyes she was blushing brilliantly, obviously shy as well as inexperienced. The thought made his cock twitch. He could tell, when her breath caught, that she could see the bald hunger in his gaze and the carnal intent in his mind. Guiding her hands to his own bare chest, Tormund grinned encouragingly before releasing her wrists and letting his own hands settle on the dip of her waist.

She flinched in surprised at how cold they were, in addition to the unfamiliarity of the sensation and Tormund realised she was skittish as a filly. Tracing his calloused fingers across the slight ridges of her ribs, he tried to acclimatise her to his touch, wondering what his people would make of how gentle he was being. He didn't recall ever being so gentle but he could feel his woman trembling under his hands and he didn't want to hurt her.

She traced her fingers across his chest slowly, her cheeks pink even as she watched the path her hands took, toying with his chest hair. Her lips twitched when he tensed as she brushed the pads of her thumbs over his nipples and Tormund almost laughed at the way she squeaked when he returned the favour. The sound she emitted when he captured both her nipples between cold fingers drew a chuckle from him and he growled when she retaliated by pressing her cold flat palms to his taut stomach. She looked at him defiantly and Tormund liked the glitter or fire in her eyes.

When he leaned in and claimed her lips, she kissed him back hotly, still unsure what to do but apparently willing to learn. She nipped his lower lip when he rolled her nipples between his fingers and she moaned softly when he leaned into her, pressing her back against the bedchamber door, wanting to feel the naked warmth of her flesh on his. Tormund kissed her hard, his hands wandering her flesh and tracing her feminine shape, learning the feel of her under his palms and feeling like he might explode with how badly he wanted to touch every inch of her.

By the Gods, his woman was full of fire. After a life lived hard beyond the wall and his recent brush with death, Tormund couldn't get enough of her warmth, leaning into her harder, sharing his heat with her and claiming hers for himself. She emitted a soft sound of pleasure when he buried his face against her neck, breathing her in and kissing the spot below her ear that turned her to slush.

"By the Seven, Tormund," she whispered when he slid his hands around her waist and down her back, delving them under the waistband of her britches to grip her arse. She tipped her head, giving him better access to her neck while he hands wandered his chest and then lower, smoothing over his stomach and heading south. Tormund knew she was curious about his cock and he couldn't wait to show it to her.

He didn't ask permission before sliding his hands around to untie the binding at the front of her britches, intent on peeling her out of them. She tensed again, but she didn't stop him, her own fingers pulling at his britches too and Tormund shoved the fabric down her legs, watching as it skidded the length of her legs to the floor, puddling about her ankles.

"I will have you now, beautiful," he said quietly, scooping her back into his arms and lifting her right off her feet.

She squeaked, instinctively curling her legs around his waist even though she hadn't finished peeling him out of his britches. Tormund carried her the short distance across the room to the bed, kneeling on the end and shuffling across it on his knees, intent on taking her the way she deserved. He would work his way up to fucking her whenever it struck his fancy. And no matter their Fight, he would claim her in a way that would have her coming back for more until they day he died. Her first time wouldn't be bloody and brutal, as most of her life had been.

Tormund might not know much about being gentle or careful or kind, but he would try to be for this woman. She might be tough as steel, but a part of her was as soft and innocent and scared as a small child. He would make her feel beautiful as he took her tonight. Tomorrow he could fuck her until she knew no other man would ever fuck her as well as he could, but tonight he would show her that no matter his brutish ways and his immense strength, he had a side that could grow to love a woman like her.

He laid her down in the middle of the bed, smoothing his hand over her belly and then lower. She tensed even as she reached for his lips, kissing him softly while his hand slid between her legs. She tried to snap her legs closed for a moment, her grip on his shoulders tightening to deadly power for a moment before she forced herself to relax, letting herself part. Tormund smiled against her skin when he broke their kiss to peer down the length of her body, wanting to see as he slipped his hand around to cup her sex. He liked that she was scared, but willing to overcome it.

"Oh," she murmured when he simply cupped her cunt for a long minute, letting her grow accustomed to the feel of his hand touching her so intimately.

He could feel the moisture gathered there amid all that heat he couldn't wait to sink into and Tormund groaned to know his woman was wet for him. By the Gods, he would have her. Brienne squeaked when he carefully parted her folders, dipping one long finger into her cunt and feeling how tight she was.

"Relax, Brienne," he instructed huskily as he worked that single digit in and out of her, feeling the way she kept tensing and relaxing, obviously unsure what to do with all the sensations he was stirring in her.

"I can't," she confessed. "I'm scared."

Tormund nodded.

"I know, beautiful."

"You said you don't know how to be gentle," she reminded him.

"I don't," he nodded, pulling back to meet her bright blue eyes. "But I will try to be. For you. Tonight."

She watched him worriedly.

"You're so warm," he told her. "By the Gods, I want to feel all that heat wrapped around my cock, Brienne."

She nodded slowly, her eyes widening and her mouth opening as she panted when he worked a second finger into her. Gods, it would be a tight fit when he fucked her. She moaned softly when he curled his fingers inside of her, finding the patch of flesh deep inside her molten cunt that he knew would drive her wild. When she reached for the ties on his britches once more, Tormund didn't stop her, enjoying the way her breath hitched and she panted and gasped as he fucked her with his fingers.

Working a third into her tight passage was difficult, and she winced, pausing as she began pulling apart the flaps on his britches, intent on reaching for his cock. Tormund knew it probably hurt a little, but she would need to get used to it if she was going to take his cock.

"By the Seven," she whispered hoarsely, breathless as she closed her eyes, her hand dipping into his britches and encircling his cock.

Tormund hissed at the cold feel of her hand before fire shot through him.

"Gods," he groaned, finger-fucking her harder, needing to bury himself inside her.

"Tormund," she moaned breathlessly, her eyes squeezed closed.

Tormund darted a look at her face, realising she was close. He knew he never be able to work his cock inside of her if she was tight and swollen when she'd come. Pulling his fingers from inside of her and snagging her hand away from his cock, Tormund worked the slick juices coating his palm over his cock before shifting to align their bodies together. She squeaked as his large frame forced her legs to part when he settled himself between them. Guiding his cock to her slit, Tormund paused, letting her feel the heat pouring off him and letting her feel the pressure of his cock resting there, hard as rock and just waiting to be buried inside her.

"Ready?" he asked, lifting his gaze to hers and watching the way she looked wild, panicked, afraid, nervous, hungry, and desperate all at the same time.

"I…" she began, her voice cracking.

Tormund smirked at her, not giving her the chance to tell him she wasn't ready. He knew she was, even if she didn't. Pushing into her slowly, Tormund gritted his teeth on the urge to come when he felt her clamp down so tight.

"Oh, Gods," she moaned, her eyes wide as he kept going, tunnelling into her until every long inch of his cock was sheathed inside of her.

"Hurts?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse with how badly he wanted to move, with how warm and wet and tight she was, with how badly he wanted to pull back and plunge into her again and again, harder and harder until she screamed.

Brienne whimpered, and nodded her head, looking like she didn't know what to do.

"If I do this, does it still?" he asked, withdrawing slowly until only the tip of him rested within her.

"Less," she said. "I…. maybe you were right. Maybe your cock _is_ the biggest this side of the Wall."

Tormund smirked. "It is," he assured her. "But you can take it."

He pushed back in a little faster and she groaned under him like she'd been stabbed. Tormund liked to think she had. He did it again, withdrawing before pushing back in, building to a slow rhythm, watching her face for every minute expression.

"Still hurts?" he asked her when she began to relax under him.

"Less than at the beginning," she said.

"Mmm, you are stretching to accommodate me," he told her, pleased even as he picked up his pace.

She began to pant again, her hands gripping his arms and his shoulders tightly, squeezing rhythmically. Tormund grinned at her when she opened her eyes to look at him, something desperate glittering in their depths.

"This is my cunt, now," he told her as he drove into her harder, wondering if he could break her on her first time. By the Gods, the things he would do to feel her cunt clamping and squeezing down on him, milking. "Until the day you die, or I die, this will be my cunt to fuck and you will be my woman."

He watched the way chills raced over her skin, prickling along her arms and tightening her nipples.

"You can't just… claim me," she protested. "Just because I agreed to fuck you doesn't make us married or anything."

"You are _mine_ ," Tormund growled fiercely. "You are mine, and I am yours, Brienne of Tarth."

She shook her head slowly, though in denial or protest of the pleasure he was unleashing inside of her as he fucked her harder, he couldn't be sure.

"Say it, Brienne," Tormund growled at her as he picked up his pace until his nuts slapped against the curve of her arse, his cock powering into her and bottoming out on ever stroke, making her arch and whine and groan. "Say you're mine!"

"I…" she began, still shaking her head, her voice tight with panic like she couldn't stand it another minute and Tormund hoped she couldn't because he was so close.

The feel of her tight cunt wrapped around him, squeezing him so tight and clutching wetly as he withdrew for every stroke was going to bring him undone and he wanted to show her pleasure, too. Gods, he wanted to show her pleasure, too. He'd never live it down if he couldn't make his woman scream.

"I…" she tried again, her voice squeaky and tight, her nails biting into his shoulders and his back, her body rocking under his, arching instinctively into every hard thrust he fed her.

"Mine, Brienne," Tormund bit out. "Say you're mine. I am yours, and you are mine."

"I… oh, Gods," she hissed before a low shriek tore from her throat, echoing in his chamber and Tormund smirked before a groan tore from him too when she clamped down on him so tightly he feared she might break his cock right off.

"Fuck!" he roared, rutting her harder, driving in even deeper as she writhed and whimper when he brought her undone. Determined to fuck her full of his come, his mind spinning with thoughts of his woman heavy with his sons, Tormund clenched his eyes closed when the heat boiled up from his toes, racing down his back and congealing in his balls until he ached. He fucked her harder, slamming into her violently, desperate for release.

When he came, his eyes crossed and the heat scalding out his cock burned like dragon-fire. By the Gods! He groaned against her neck as he filled her with his essence, clutching her tightly in his arms, determined never to let her go. She grunted when he was done, and he collapsed on top of her heavily. But she was a big woman, and she could take his powerful frame pressing her into the soft mattress without breaking like some silly, weak woman would.

"Mine," he growled into her neck, needing to hear her say it. Needing her to acknowledge that she was his now.

She didn't.

Even when he got his breath back and lifted himself off her enough peer into her face, loving the flush of red staining her cheeks. She levelled him a confused and belligerent look, like she didn't know what to do with him, or with what they'd done and the come he'd fucked into her. She looked at him like she didn't dare lay claim to him and Tormund knew that no matter how much he wanted it, she wasn't going to admit to being his tonight. Maybe not for months.

She didn't trust him, he realised. She'd let him fuck her, but she didn't trust that tomorrow morning would come and find him still determined to call her his. She didn't trust that he wouldn't get up and brag to all of his friends about fucking her.

And she was right not to, because he planned to tell every fucker he met that she was his woman, and that he'd claimed her in their Fight. She thought he would laugh and scoff and degrade her tomorrow for giving in and thinking someone like him – that _any_ man – would ever want her for more than a quick fuck. But she would see. He would show her, no matter how long it took, that she was his woman and she would be until the day one of them died.

"You're mine, Brienne of Tarth," he told her. "You're mine, and I'm yours."

She frowned at him, pushing at his shoulder and looking like it was too much. She wanted to get away, but Tormund wasn't going to let her. She was his woman, now. He rolled off her only because she emitted a sound like she was fighting the urge to sob, and he watched her drag one of the furs from the bed to cover her body as she sat up. She turned her back to him, facing the hearth and trembling.

Tormund traced his eyes over her, trying to think of some way to make her see that he didn't regret what they'd done. That he wanted to do it again just as soon as he'd caught his breath and his dick found another reserve of energy to make it rise. Rolling off the bed, he walked around the end of it and over to the small water basin on the table in the corner. Dipping a cloth into the water, he wiped off his cock, aware of Brienne's eyes on him and trying to hide his smile to know she wanted to see every inch of him.

When he was clean, he rung the cloth out in the bowl of water before turning toward her, intent on cleaning her up too.

"What are you doing?" she asked, cringing back a little when he crossed the room ad invaded her space, lowering himself to his knees before her and reaching for her thighs.

"Let me clean you up, beautiful," he said. "Made a mess of you, I did."

She frowned at him.

"I… don't. I'll do it," she said, trying to snatch the cloth from him.

"You're my woman," he reminded her. "It's my job to mind you. Now, hold still."

He pried her thighs apart before pulling her to the very edge of the bed, one hand pressing on the middle of her chest to force her back, making her lie back. She protested, struggling against him until he dragged the cloth over her cunt.

"Torumnd," she protested, trying to take the cloth from him.

"Just let me, woman," he said, chuckling. "Stubborn as a mule, you are. Told you. This is my cunt. I'll clean it after up I make a mess of it, and I'll kiss it better until it stops hurting when I fuck you."

She squeaked when he did just that, leaning in and pressing his lips to her folds gently.

"By the Seven!" he heard her gasp, but he didn't cease his task, cleaning her up and peppering her cunt and the insides of her thighs with kisses.

He worked his way up, kissing her stomach and sending a prayer to the Old Gods that she would fall pregnant quickly with his sons. She protested when he kissed higher, dragging his tongue over her ribs and the underside of her breasts, tasting every inch of her.

"Tormund," she breathed when he closed his mouth over her right nipple, nipping it gently before suckling hard.

His cock stirred, entertaining thoughts of another round as he listened to her breathless moans. Intent on exhausting her until she wouldn't be able to sneak away in the night while he slept, Tormund smirked at her wickedly before seducing her all over again.


End file.
